


The Ballad of Walburga Black (the Versified Remix)

by via_ostiense



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Animal Death, Child Abuse, Community: remixredux09, Gen, Poetry, Remix, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/via_ostiense/pseuds/via_ostiense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walburga was the mistress of the illustrious family name,<br/>She ruled with iron wand and her spells could many maim.<br/>Noble and Most Ancient is a way of saying cruel,<br/>A house of strict traditions, of blood and switchy yew.</p><p>THIS IS A REMIX - NOT ELIGIBLE FOR REMIX REDUX.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Walburga Black (the Versified Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [negativecosine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/negativecosine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In Which Walburga Shoots No Messengers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/170175) by [negativecosine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/negativecosine/pseuds/negativecosine). 



> Thank you to sahiya for betaing! Fic contains animal abuse, child abuse, alcoholism, and murder fantasies.

Walburga was the mistress of the illustrious family name,  
She ruled with iron wand and her spells could many maim.  
Noble and Most Ancient is a way of saying cruel,  
A house of strict traditions, of blood and switchy yew.

She was hard of heart, cold of soul, that much is known to all,  
Often just a footnote in the tale of Riddle’s fall.  
Shrieking hag of Grimauld Place, an atmospheric note,  
But listen close and you shall hear the story no one wrote.

At eleven years of age, Walburga’s magic showed,  
Angry at her cousin, she screamed and burst his toad.  
Guts flew yon and hither and spattered walls and floor,  
Walburga proudly willed the stains to last forevermore.

Her parents threw a party and smiled before their guests,  
For celebration’s called for, when magic manifests.  
But later Irma found her and said, “Kneel on the floor,”  
And hit her once and then again, though she was a Squib no more.

“Congratulations, Daughter, you’ve shown your magic’s strong.  
But disgrace me so again, and I’ll drown you in the pond.  
For ‘Toujours Pur’ is more than blood, it’s how you should behave.  
In public, Blacks are decorous, and never scream or rage.”

Walburga kept her head bowed, as blood dripped down her face.  
Irma’s voice was undisturbed and lectured on apace.  
“In private, you may curse, and with blood your household paint;  
In public, be the picture of refinement and restraint.”

The lesson of decorum was seared into her head,  
The first spell that she mastered kept shouts and bangs mutéd.  
When enraged beyond good taste, into her room she went;  
With Silencing Charms set, to her feelings she gave vent.

Then off she went to Hogwarts, where she strove to make Head Girl--  
She meant to wipe away all the years of insults hurled.  
For a pureblood without magic hears more whispers every year  
Of pruning deadened branches, of exiles and of biers.

She had an early memory of burns on woven cloth,  
Grandpa Cygnus telling her he’d blasted Marius off.  
“Squibs are worse than Muggles, they have defects in their blood.  
Marius was my own son, but to me, he’s low’r than mud.”

After seventh year was finished, into researching she went,  
Crafting charms and writing tomes of complex, thoughtful bent.  
 _Magical Heredity in Britain_ gained acclaim,  
And she was deemed a credit to her ancient family name.

For the first time in her life, Walburga was content,  
And thought she’d keep on following her academic bent.  
She had all that she wanted, her home, her books, her charms,  
And spent each day devising new wandwork for alarms.

As the years went by, her brothers grew and left the family home,  
Cygnus married Druella and Alphard went to roam.  
Walburga, Irma, Pollux, and Cassiopeia, too,  
Were left alone in Grimauld Place and bid the boys adieu.

In 1951, Walburga gained a niece,  
Bellatrix, a terror, whose screams did drown out geese.  
Walburga smiled politely and cooed over the child,  
Then escaped back to her study, where her shudders were not mild.

For she loved her life of intellect, of independence rare,  
Of treatises and pamphlets, no spouse or child or care.  
She wished to stay a spinster and gladly cheered on Age,  
And checked each morn for wrinkles that no man would e’er engage.

With the passing years she gained more nieces, one, then two,  
And Bellatrix showed magic (she set afire an ewe).  
More important to Walburga, she won the Iris Prize,  
Given for a ward that ripped out intruders’ eyes.

Life was going well ‘til a day in ‘58,  
When Irma summoned her for tea and said, “It’s none too late.  
You’re 33 years old, my girl, I’ll see you wed this fall,  
I’ve spoken with Melania, her son will come to call.”

Heeding lessons learned in this parlor years ago,  
Walburga merely nodded, and did not the tea tray throw.  
When she was in her room, she Silenced all her screams,  
She broke all of her furniture, created quite a scene.

Her fury duly exercised, she paced and schemed and thought,  
And swore that if she married, she would not give up aught.  
She found Irma in the library and spoke with frigid calm,  
And drove a careful bargain to keep her life from harm.

“12 Grimauld Place will come to me, to me and not my spouse,  
It won’t go to my brothers, who moved and quit this house.  
I shall be my father’s heir and keep the family name,  
If these terms are too much for you, then I shall cast no blame.”

She hoped to see her mother blanch and make denial,  
For these were terms unheard of and to tradition vile.  
Then she could escape marriage and live her life unchanged,  
But if her parents acquiesced, then it would be no pain.

For in her home she’d keep her cherished independence;  
With testament’ry wealth, she’d not be a dependent.  
She’d bear a child or two, her duty to her spouse,  
Then send them to a nurse in their own part of the house.

Irma nodded silently and took the Vow Eternal,  
Which guaranteed she’d keep her word or burn in fires infernal.  
Walburga met Orion, and gave him terms as well,  
He sneered and said, “Whatever, separate lives sound swell.”

She was married and gave birth, and kept on with her spells;  
Orion partied endlessly and slept with pureblood belles.  
He kept out of her way and drank ‘til he was blind;  
Fortnights passed in silence, and they didn’t care nor mind.

Children were an irritant, a necessary bore,  
Sirius and Regulus, and then she said, “No more.”  
Regulus was biddable, a sweet, obedient child;  
Sirius was a hellion and drove his mother wild.

One day when he was six, he ran up to his mum,  
With a squirming, spotted puppy smeared with gutter scum.  
“Some Muggle children left her, may I keep her, please say yes!  
I’ll play with her and feed her, and make a cozy nest!”

“A dog’s a pet for Muggles, boy, and you’re a noble Black,”  
Walburga grabbed the puppy and swept out to the back.  
The pond was clear and cold as she held the mongrel down;  
It thrashed and kicked out frantically as it was cruelly drowned.

Tears and shrieks rent the air as Sirius screamed and wailed;  
Walburga hit him ‘til he bled, and finally he quailed.  
“Disgraceful son, I’ll not have this, you shouldn’t scream or rage,  
For ‘Toujours Pur’ is more than blood, it’s how you should behave.”

He spat at her and ran away, she watched in disbelief,  
Wishing she could drown him, too, and give herself relief.  
She briefly longed to kill them all, her husband and her son,  
Her nieces and her brothers, too, her father and her mum.

A glorious life she’d have, independent of them all,  
But she sighed and pursed her lips, and her composure did not fall.  
Life was good enough, she said, telling this to Kreacher,  
A faithful confidant, unable to betray her.

The children went to Hogwarts, Orion to the flask,  
Sirius Sorted Gryffindor, Orion downed a cask.  
Walburga was indifferent to all until the day,  
When Severus came to see her, with ill tidings to say.

Her second son was dead, a coward and a fool;  
Walburga bit her tongue until blood began to pool.  
She’d kill everyone, she thought, Sirius number one,  
And sorely wished that with the dog she’d also drowned her son.

She wants to hear him gurgle, wants to see him thrash,  
And when he’s done expiring, she’ll leave him with the trash.  
Orion will be next, some hemlock in his tumbler,  
And when he’s cold and dead, his breath will ne’er accost her.

Her pretty, prideful nieces are also on the list,  
She’ll make them die together, though slowest Bellatrix.  
A simple and quick Killing Curse for Dorea and her men,  
The light will die from their warm eyes for taking Sirius in.

Alphard left him gold, and though he’s dead, she’ll kill him too,  
Cygnus also earned his death by deserting his nephew.  
If resurrection’s possible, she’ll blast her son once more,  
Then she’ll burn the house down to the ground, every ward and floor.

Maybe the fire will burn up London, Muggles, wizards, all,  
From Grimauld Place to Diagon, from Aldgate to Whitehall.  
"It’s been too long since Blacks burned down an ancient city whole,"  
Walburga will tell Kreacher while they watch the inferno.

Walburga held her tongue though, and merely hurled a tray;  
Severus ducked agilely and left, done with his say.  
Walburga breathed in deeply, but did not scream or rage,  
For Toujours Pur is more than blood, it’s how you should behave.

She did not shout, she did not cry, she did not shed a tear;  
She Owled to a _Portraitiste_ and wrote, “Madame, come here.  
It’s time I had a portrait done and I want you to paint,  
A portrait that will speak my heart, and with a voice not faint.”

Walburga held two funerals in 1979,  
First her son and then her husband; when asked, she said, “I’m fine.”  
She felt this to be true, for she was on her own;  
She researched, wrote, and worked, and died at home alone.

Now we’ve finished my tale, the rest is known to all,  
Walburga Black: the raging, shrieking portrait on the wall.  
The portrait never tires of wail or yell or curse:  
It screams as she could not, for lost sons and wishes burst.

She was horrid, yes, that’s true, failed as mother and as wife,  
But I thought you should know the entirety of her life.  
For she was more than venomous, vile, and angry hag;  
Most stories don’t make room for that and nuances are gagged.

**Author's Note:**

> For more information on the various characters mentioned here, check out the HP Lexicon's pages "The Black Family" (http://www.hp-lexicon.org/wizards/blackfamily.html) and "The Black Family Tree" (http://www.hp-lexicon.org/wizards/blackfamilytree.html).


End file.
